Going in Circles
by IzzBella91
Summary: Despite attempts by both House and Wilson for their relationship to remain static, it can't help but change. The only question is - how will they handle it? HW slash, nothing explicit. Wilson's POV.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: House MD is the property of David Shore.

--

I walk into House's office. Music is blaring. It's not his normal music either. It's some sort of foreign song, words mixing together in some high-pitched noise, incomprehensible to me. I wonder at his strange taste in music.

"What is that?" I ask, leaning against the doorway. My hands are shoved deep in my pockets and I don't meet his eyes. I'm not sure why.

He glares at me. I rack my brain for any recent arguments we've had - I can't think of any that would instigate a glare though. An annoyed grimace maybe. Or an amused smirk, or maybe a single eyebrow raise. But the glare didn't fit. Although, I'm sure it did to him. He still hasn't answered me. So I repeat myself. "What's the music?"

"Opera." He says. His voice is flat, void of sarcasm or snarkyness. I wonder what his joke is, what his plan is. He is always plotting. This is just some confusing, weird, unfortunate scheme.

"Oh." I respond.

He lowers his eyes back to the book he has in one hand. The other hand moves to his I-pod player, turning up the music so that the room shakes and I can barely make out my own thoughts. He wants me to leave.

I won't.

"You want to get some dinner with me? There's this new place at -"

"No." He interrupts me. He doesn't want to see me, hear me. He is in his bubble. He always hides in his bubble. I wonder what caused him to hide this time. I wonder at a lot of things concerning House.

"Oh." I say, again. Words seem to be evading me, for now. I have nothing to lecture him about, as far as I know. He obviously isn't in the mood for one of our very random, weird conversations like the one about which animal has the largest penis. So I don't know what to say. So I stand there, staring, and saying nothing.

He reads his book. The music is hurting my ears. The lady is singing about a boy named Constantine. And a girl called Gabrielle. They are dead.

I leave. The door banging shut is inaudible as the woman hits a high note. It trails after me as I walk down the hallway.

--

House has been acting strange. He didn't meet me for lunch. I am ten dollars richer, his reuben and soda conspicuously not on my receipt. I add up in my head how much money I have spent on him over the years. It's futile.

As I'm walking back to my office, sandwich settling in my stomach, I spot Chase a few paces ahead of me. I run up and grab his arm. "Hey. Have you seen House?"

He flinches in surprise, and then gives me a polite smile. "Sorry, no. Didn't show up for work today, actually. You don't happen to know why, do you?"

I shake my head, turning this revelation over in my head for a moment. Chase asks, "Should we maybe ask Cuddy?"

"No, if anyone should know why… it'd be me. House tends to skip over the whole calling in thing when he's sick. I'm sure he just has the flu or something." I reply, trying to make myself sound reassuring. It was a stupid thing to try to do, Chase is pretty good at seeing past fakeness. He doesn't let on, just nods his head and turns into the conference room, of which I just realized we were next to.

House's office looks very empty without him in it, without him tossing his lacrosse ball around or playing a video game.

I shake my head and start for my office.

--

"House? It's me… I'm coming in." I yell half-heartedly through the door. I don't know why I bother.

The spare key is neatly tucked away in my jacket pocket. That is its resting place, always there, even though I haven't lived with House in forever. I find it reassuring though, and keep it on my keychain.

I pause before finally gripping the cold doorknob and letting myself in. House isn't in the living room… or the kitchen.

I'm worried.

I call out his name – only silence answers me – and then head further into his apartment. There are a few empty beers on the coffee table, forgotten. The TV blinks, lighting up the apartment in colorful spurts. It's turned on mute. There is no noise.

His bedroom door is shut. I feel like an idiot, getting worried, searching his apartment like this. He's probably not even home.

Or is asleep. I glance at my watch. It's seven PM. Oh well, worth the try anyway. I knock against the smooth wood of the door, barely audible. I whisper softly, "House? You in there?"

No answer. I push the door open, smirking at the loud creak. Why does it seem like I have been flung into a horror film?

I roll my eyes at the sight that greets me. House is collapsed on his bed, his face smashed into the pillows. His limbs are thrown every which way, tangled in the bedding. He looks quite uncomfortable, actually. There's no light in the room. His blinds are shut tight.

I think about leaving. I should leave – I have no purpose here. I have no right to even be here. If House wakes up… well, I don't want to see that.

But… going to bed at _seven._ An early night for House is sometime before one AM. This is just another thing to add to the growing list of odd behavior. Maybe I should spend less time watching over him, watching _out _for him, and more time paying attention to my own life. But I can't seem to stop.

He mumbles something in his sleep and rolls over violently. He is all sharp edges and flying limbs and awkwardness. No wonder his leg hurts in the morning.

I peer closer and notice his face is flushed. It is freezing cold in the room and yet a sheen of sweat covers his forehead. I see the curtains swaying from the breeze and find the cause of the chill. I tread softly across the room and shut the window closed, wincing at the squeak and resultant slam. I glance at my sleeping friend, sighing in relief as I deduce that he is still completely dead to the world.

Maybe he actually _is _sick, I think. Maybe he has a fever.

I continue to not make a sound as I make my way over to the bed. House twists a little more, his hands gripping the sheets. Maybe he's having a nightmare. I lean over him, feeling like a fool for being here. I am always the fool. I lower my hand to his forehead, gauging the temperature.

He's warm. Very warm. I want to wake him up and take his temperature with a thermometer, but then he would know that I was here. Which I definitely do not want. I sigh, considering the idea of staying the night on his couch. I have this very strange urge to take care of him. To protect him, even though he is a grown man and doesn't need my help. I like to think that he needs me, sometimes.

My hand is still on his forehead and I'm surprised when he turns into my touch. I smile at this unconscious sign of affection and run my fingers through his mussed-up hair. My thumb does slow circles at the spot in between his eyebrows. I can hear him sigh softly. And then I think, oh shit. Because I can tell he is waking up.

Uh-oh.

I try to withdraw my hand but somehow House has trapped it underneath his head. This is a very bad situation indeed. My pulse quickens in panic, truly fearing the wrath of House. I tug my hand out, finally. I'm free.

I look over the sleeping form of my friend one last time before I start to leave. He has kicked off his blankets and is covered only by a t-shirt and boxers. _Tented _boxers.

…Uh.

So _that _was what he had been dreaming about.

I gulp.

I trip over my own feet in my haste to get out of the room. I crash to the floor, my face making acquaintance with House's midnight blue carpet. It smells like feet.

I get up cautiously, fully prepared to continue in the race to my car.

Of course, now bleary blue eyes are staring up at me unblinkingly. House's eyebrows wrinkle together in confusion. His voice crackles from disuse. "Wilson?"

He lets out a long, slow breath and closes his eyes again. I hope that he is starting to fall back asleep. No luck. His eyes are still closed, but he has grabbed my hand from where it lay next to him on the bed. He runs his thumb over the skin, dare I say _caressing _it. I shiver. I blame the winter cold.

"Um." I respond.

I can't quite remember why I am here, or how I got to be in this situation. This seems to be an alarming omission on my part. My mind struggles to comprehend, and rectify, the situation.

I can tell that House is starting to _actually _wake up, so I transform my face into one of cool indifference, rather than one flustered and panicked. He grumbles something before opening his eyes to look up at me. And then he looks at my hand, which he is still holding. Back at me. Then my hand. His voice clearer, he says, "I have your hand."

"Yeah," I say, hoping that this apparent confusion lasts a bit longer.

He doesn't loosen his grip but asks, "And _why _do I have your hand?"

"You kidnapped it. Or handnapped, should I say. But my hand definitely did not _force _your hand to take it. Rather, it – "

"Oh, shut up." House interrupts, rolling his eyes at me. Damn, my attempt at utilizing his confusion to my advantage did not work.

He is still holding my hand. His hand is very warm, I think. And surprisingly soft.

"Why are you here?"

Ah, the question I was trying to avoid in the first place.

He sounds annoyed.

I try to tug my hand away but he holds it tight. I answer, "I was worried, House. I called and you didn't answer. The last time this happened I found you lying in your own vomit on the floor. I… I have a right to be worried when you don't answer your phone."

He sighs, and I know he wants to argue over that point. He doesn't, though. I'm grateful.

"I've been avoiding you," he says out-of-the-blue.

I don't know quite how to take that confession. So I say simply, "I know."

He grins. "I knew that was where the conversation would inevitably go anyway, so I thought I'd just get to the point. So – you hate the fact that I have been avoiding you and you want to find out why. Your curiosity is the real reason you came here."

I tug at my hand, angry that he was able to do his mind games even after just waking up. He just grabs it with his other hand as well. My hand is starting to sweat.

"Okay, so I'm curious. Don't I have a right to be? You're my friend and you are exhibiting antisocial tendencies. Well, even _more so _than usual. You're… treating me like everyone else, I guess. It bothers me, yeah. But I _did _come here because I care if you kill yourself."

"When did we start talking about me killing myself?" He asks, irritated.

I didn't actually mean to say that. It was my intention to stop after "care" but my brain and my mouth were having communication issues. Damn.

Because… I live in this constant fear that House is going to die one way or another. Rightly so, I suppose. It is not a completely irrational thought – he has had some near death experiences, most by his own doing but still.

But, anyway, this fear plagues me, always. And I find myself obsessing nonstop about him. And I watch over him. But I'm not his fucking guardian angel.

He doesn't like help anyway, and I find myself being pushed away.

I don't want _him _to know about this fear though. I just didn't want a repeat of last Christmas. That's why I'm here.

I don't tell him this, though. I just shrug. "Can I have my hand back?"

"No."

"And why not? Do you have some special interest in my hand or do you just like to be irritating?" And _boy _am I becoming irritated.

"You're the one who broke into my house to watch me sleep. I think you're the one who has to do the explaining." He gives me his superior look, believing he has one upped me.

"First, I used a key. And, second, I didn't come to watch you drool into your pillow and… and…(the reason for the pause is that I have just suddenly remembered what it was he had been dreaming about and the state in which he had been in when I _was _watching him… and also he must be quite uncomfortable at the moment) just give me my damn hand back!" I shout, becoming very nervous and finding my eyes starting to roam down his body, which doesn't have a blanket to veil it.

House notices my gaze and… _smirks. _If someone had found me in that state I would be embarrassed out of my mind and he has the audacity to… _smirk. _I'm more flustered than he is. Although, maybe that's because he has started to stroke my hand again. He bugs me. A lot. Always, actually.

I scoff, trying to hide my nervousness. "If you don't want me to be here then why won't you let me leave?"

It's too dark to really be able to read his expression, unfortunately. I want to know what he's thinking, what he's feeling. I glance at the clock and am surprised at how long I've been here. I don't want to leave, for some reason. I _do _want to get out of this position though: me half leaning over House on the bed with my hand trapped in his. And there's the certain other problem that I _definitely _do not keep glancing at. House, thankfully, interrupts my thoughts. "I didn't say I wanted you to go. I'm just wondering why you're here."

We're talking in fucking circles.

"We're talking in circles, House." My back starts to cramp from being forced to bend over, so I collapse heavily on the bed next to House. As I sit next to him I begin to inexplicably feel like I am at someone's death bed – holding their hand as they die. This feeling doesn't surprise me. That it _doesn't _surprise me is surprising, though.

House raises an eyebrow and I realize how close we are right now. "Something you hinting at here, Wilson?"

I am about to tell him off, since _he's _the one who put us like this, but he continues automatically to, "I have to pee."

He lets my hand go and the air cools it. Without a second glance he rolls off the bed, limping into the bathroom without the help of his cane. I don't watch him go.

I am uncertain as to what he wants me to do, if he wants me to leave. I'm not going to, anyway. Instead, I scootch over so I'm in the direct center of the bed, legs stretched out and my head cushioned by one arm. I stare at the ceiling and my mind seems to wander. My thoughts trail on without me and I find myself thinking about House jerking off in the bathroom, which I know he is. I blush.

His mattress is insanely comfortable and I find my eyes starting to close, my mind starting to quiet. I drift off into a half sleep.

When I wake up House is watching me from across the room, giving me this weird, intense look. He's now fully dressed, and even has his cane in hand. I guess I've succeeded in waking him up for the night. And now, ironically, I am exhausted. I'm tempted to just go back to sleep but when my eyes drift close my skin tingles from the knowledge that he's watching me.

I open my eyes and give him a sleepy gaze, accompanied by a giant yawn. He smirks. "And it seems I have found the _real _reason you came – to steal my bed."

I shake my head and sit up, trying to gain the energy to move. I run a hand through my hair and yawn again. I mumble an apology.

I am unsteady as I become upright, swaying slightly. House watches me curiously, following me with his eyes. For a moment we just stand there. In the dark. Staring.

I don't know _why _I am staring but House's eyes are mesmerizing - I can't look away. They glitter and dull and pierce all at the same time. It is a sea of a million hues that is bombarding down on me – who knew such power could come from only those two eyes. I am amazed.

And a bit scared.

I am scared because House's stare can mean a million different things, each with its own potential of destruction. House is… unpredictable (at best) and my ordered and neatly-wrapped life threatens to collapse at the mere stare of the impulsive evil genius, House. He has the ability to destroy lives… and save them, obviously. All in a myriad of ways.

His stare is causing me to think too much. I am overanalyzing and it is never good to overanalyze my and House's relationship. Actually, it's better to lean towards the vague with us. Never look beyond the surface. Who knows what is lurking in our relationship. I, myself, never want to find out.

Apparently House does.

He blinks and the spell is broken. My mind becomes serenely blank. He walks a few steps forward.

I step back quickly. I am quite disturbed at this violation of personal space. Neither House nor I are much for the huggy, personal contact type of friendship. We like our space, we need our space. Come to think of it, in all of the (many) years I have known House, I can barely think of a time we have truly touched more than a brush of the shoulder when walking down the hallway. In a strange, far away place of myself I ache for just simple human contact. From a friend I have known forever. From someone who I know hurts just as deeply as I do. I always tell him how to not be miserable. Maybe he just needs…

He blinks again. And in that brief moment that those intense eyes are concealed, I am able to breathe. They open again far too quickly and in a panicked response I close my own.

I have no idea what is going on.

Maybe I should leave.

Yeah, leaving would be good.

And dump these troubling feelings in this empty, dark room for House to deal with. Maybe he will have reached a conclusion by tomorrow and then can tell me what the hell I am feeling.

I open my eyes tentatively and lower my gaze to the floor. I shuffle to the door, intensely glaring at my shoes. I say, "We all need someone, House. You push away the people who care, who give a damn about you. You are so cynical, you know. You don't think that anyone can truly love someone, unconditionally. That no one can love _you _unconditionally. But, really, how do you know if you don't try?"

At the end of my hopelessly sappy speech my mouth remains open in the gaping-fish sort of way that makes me look like all my brain cells have been knocked out. I am too surprised at my own words to even continue on my (strangely long) journey out of this freaky bedroom that is causing me to say strange things. I don't know where those words came from, honestly. Or what I meant.

Maybe, on the surface, what I said was normal, because House didn't look like what I said had any sort of undercurrent of emotion. Or maybe he hadn't picked up on it.

Oh wait. He picks up on _everything._

I shake my head. I give him a small smile (everything's okay) and then I start to leave.

But he grabs my arm. And he holds on for dear life.

He moves in close and speaks into my ear. "You want to know? You really want to know?"

"Know what?" I pull on my arm uselessly – he seems to have acquired superhuman strength tonight.

"Why I've been avoiding you, dummy. Don't you want to know why?" He sounds patronizing and I have the feeling that I'm being reprimanded. For what, I don't know.

"Well, I think I just said…"

My words trail off and fall flat as he moves in closer. His face is inches, centimeters in front of mine. I can feel his breath. It's funny that I still don't realize what he is doing.

Not until his lips press against mine and my whole being seems to implode.

It is a very cautious kiss, which is so unusual for House. I think I would feel more comfortable if he had shoved me against the wall and had his way with me.

He kisses me harder.

I groan against his lips and I can tell he's surprised by my reaction. I'm surprised by my reaction. And by the unmistakable feeling of lust that is running through my body.

I am all too aware of his hands starting to move – through my hair, along my arms, across my stomach. I had never particularly concerned myself with the intricacies of his hands, and now I realize what a mistake that had been. He has terrific hands.

He breaks the kiss, only to free his mouth to move across my jaw and neck. What we are doing is slow and hot and tantalizing and… somewhat awkward. But it feels so, so good because it is House. It's House.

It's _House. _

It's House, my friend, who is kissing me and touching me and making me feel things that can only be described in the corniest, most clichéd ways.

I tense up without thinking about it. My hands still from where they were running through House's hair and down his back.

He stops in response, taking a step back and observing my expression, which must have been very strange with the many conflicting feelings that are fighting for dominance.

I bite my lip and shake my head, my hair falling in front of my face and veiling my scared eyes. I give him a quick glance. "We shouldn't be doing this. You know we shouldn't be doing this."

"And yet I did it anyway. How _unlike _me to do something that I knew you'd disapprove of." He responded with a smirk.

I nod my head. "Yeah."

He doesn't say anything for a moment, quietly contemplating the situation. Probably plotting his next move. He's _always _plotting.

He raises an eyebrow. "You are the one who came here. You are the one who didn't want me to push you away. This seems to me like the opposite of pushing, Wilson."

He's right. It annoys me to no end that he's always right.

I'm suddenly very angry, and defiance runs through my veins. I shoot fire with my eyes and yell, "House – you know perfectly well what will happen with this. You think this will _strengthen _our relationship, our friendship. It'll destroy it. You _are _pushing me away. You're just choosing a different method in doing so."

He grins wickedly, completely and totally ignoring what I had just said. "I like my method better."

I roll my eyes but can't help but grin. I wonder at what point in my life I suddenly decided to become friends with a psychopath like House. I remember that there was a blissful few years where House was just that annoying guy who had the office across from mine. When that simple relationship morphed into the screwed up thing it is today, I do not know.

All I know is that I want to kiss him.

So I do. I give him a quick peck on the lips that doesn't really mean anything at all.

But I know things that I don't want to know. And I know that what I said held at least a grain of truth, and that it wasn't just me freaking out. Really. Well, maybe I'm freaking out a little.

But still.

I shoot House a careless grin and then let my eyes grow dim. "I do love you, House. Just know that. And I won't let you push me away, by any method. I'll see you tomorrow."

I leave and don't look back.

I'm happy when no voice calls out to me in protest, telling me to stay.

Maybe House, for once, has decided to listen.

--

A/N: I revised this a couple dozen times so hopefully there aren't too many mistakes, but feel free to point out any I might have missed. I have the next couple chapters already typed up, so hopefully I'll get them up soon. Thanks for reading and please review.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: House MD is owned by David Shore and some other people…

--

I believe that I have become the master at avoidance. It is an art, really.

And I'm an idiot.

I am in my office with the blinds shut tight and my door locked. _Both _doors, since I'm familiar with all of House's tricks. I thought I'd be able to get some work done, that there was a positive to this quasi-argument with House. Maybe I could be productive, I thought, without him as a distraction.

Didn't quite work out that way.

At the moment I am sitting cross-legged on the carpet, leaning up against the door, the back of my head resting on the cool wood. I'm staring at the backs of my hands, the tiled ceiling, the slivers of sunlight dancing around the room.

I am thinking.

Obsessing.

Really, I'm hating myself. Guilt is gnawing at my insides and my conscience is giving me a particularly harsh lecture. It's telling me to stop sulking and go talk to House. It's telling me that I'm being a big baby. For some reason, my conscience sounds a lot like House. Ironic, really.

I hate it when we're fighting. Usually it's because of him, which is one more reason why this argument is that much worse. It's all my fault. But, the main reason I hate when we fight, besides me losing his oh-so-lovely company and missing out on his random and cleverly thought up insults, is that when we aren't speaking I can't watch out for him.

I think I have a guardian angel complex (House would like that thought, I know.)

I spend a substantial amount of my time tracking House. I'm damage control. And along with saving the hospital billions of dollars in legal fees by talking him out of certain insane ideas with my flawless logic (hey, I succeed every once in awhile!) I also watch out for him as a person. Well, I think I do. Past experience has taught me that I don't do my job too well.

I don't want him to self-destruct.

There are very few people who can tell when he's being more insane than usual, a more dangerous insane. This is usually when he's in the low cycle of his depression. He becomes restless… and you never really know what he will do.

I am the one who tries to, you know, curb these ideas. Maybe get him too drunk to really be able to follow through with them. Or maybe just watch him and give the order of when to get him into the mental hospital.

He thinks I'm a bit pathetic with how much I care.

But who else will?

He's said that I have a need for neediness. I know it's true. But what does it hurt to take care of someone? What does it hurt to be needed?

Another little, obnoxious voice in my head reminds me of what happens when they don't need me anymore. Or when I get bored or when something goes wrong or… I don't know.

I break them.

I find them brokenhearted and in need of a friend. I let them cry on my shoulder.

I get them to fall in love with me.

And then I toss them away.

The air seems to burn my lungs as I take a deep breath. I shut off my brain and think of the ocean and how the water glitters yellow and blue and green…

One thought drifts into my newly-calmed mind, though.

The reason why I have become so attached to House, and his neediness, is that I know that he will never truly be fixed. He is too deeply hurt, too damaged.

Cameron isn't the only one who likes damaged people.

He will always need me.

…

A knock sends vibrations through the wood and against my head – painful ripples that illustrate my anxiety. It isn't until my eyes snap open that I realize they had closed. The world had been a delightful fuzzy and suddenly everything becomes hard and tangible and _real _again. As if awakening from a dream. More like a nightmare…

Ripples are sent through the back of my head once again and I reposition myself on the carpeted floor. I'm turned towards the door and I stare at it curiously. The knocks are too low to be from a hand.

Rather they're from a cane.

_Leave me alone, House. _I plead, even though only my own mind can hear it.

The doorknob rattles and it seems to scream at me with its clanking metal and shaking, blurring gold. I stand up unsteadily and lower my hand over it, trying futilely to calm it down, quiet it. Its screams are muffled but now the noise is reverberated through my fingertips.

House's deep voice passes easily through the wood. "You're avoidance techniques are pathetic. Maybe try to hide in a room that _doesn't _have your name on it."

I press my forehead against the door and imagine House's face on the other side. The material of my clothing rustles as I shuffle closer, bringing me and House into an imaginary hug through the wall. I grin a little and wonder when House will give up.

He's not one to give up.

He will find a way in here, I think, even if he has to crawl through the vents to do so. His stubbornness and resolve is astounding sometimes.

Although it is about to be tested.

I hear him sigh, low and thick and full of so many things, and I sigh right back at him, even though I know he will hear me. He already knows I'm right behind the door anyway, so why keep up the charade?

"Wilson?" He whispers, his voice soft in a way that I hate.

Okay, I guess I could've pretended that I was more successful in ignoring him, like maybe working at my desk instead of giving him an imaginary hug through my office door.

I feel like I'm twelve.

House tends to do that to you sometimes.

His recognizable voice finds its way through the barrier once again. "For once it wasn't about pushing you away, you know. It wasn't about anything at all – it just was. So feel free to pretend. I know you do that well. Pretend nothing happened. But just know that it doesn't erase it."

I sigh in response and in my mind I answer, _I know. _

I stay by the door, my palms pressed up against it, trying to feel my friend's body heat on the other side. It's not working. All I feel is the ice cold that somehow snaked its way into the room.

My heart seems to drop down into my stomach and my heart speeds up. I can already feel the regret seeping into me. I unlock the door and open it as fast as my arms will allow.

He's gone.

--

A/N: Reviews are greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: House is the property of people who are not me…

--

I smile into the mirror, white teeth glinting menacingly. Shadowed eyes gaze back at me. My mirrored face raises an eyebrow and tells me that my smile is the fakest thing it has ever seen. I scoff and tell it that it doesn't have to look at it anyway, so why should I listen?

Then I quickly look away from the glass because I am quite disturbed by the fact that I'm talking to myself.

My reflection was honest, though. I have been pasting this fake smile on for awhile now and it's getting annoying.

I stretch my limbs out and do a little shake (trying to shake off the itchy feeling I have acquired) and I tell myself that I am calm and cool and collected. I tell myself that there is nothing to worry about. I tell myself that I am not about to go banshee and scream my lungs out while ripping out my hair and possibly whacking a certain somebody over the head with his own cane.

House has been annoying as of late.

And by as of late I mean always and forever and especially right at this moment.

He decided to drop by. You know, just to say hi at three in the morning on a work night, probably waking up the entire hotel as he shouted incessantly for me to let him in. That was a lovely way to wake up, I assure you. Not that I was having all that pleasant of a dream…

I was having a rather horrifying one, actually.

As my fuzzy, just woken up mind remembers – my dream was a reflection of my life. No wonder it was so terrible.

I grasp at a few tendrils of hazy memory and find a sarcastic face, _House's _sarcastic face, I'm sure. Death and dying seemed to be the obvious theme though. Which one of us was doing the dying, I don't know.

More flashes come back to me. Test results, a lab chart that seemed to glow. A strange potted plant that creepily resembled the one from Little Shop of Horrors. House's grin. House's eyes. A red stain on a crisp white shirt from either blood or wine. And mixed in with all this was a squeaky exam table.

My eyes widen as I try to recall as to _why _the exam table was squeaky, and am panicked as the rest of my dream fades away.

All I know is that I can still feel the clamminess on my skin from when I woke up drenched in sweat.

Too cold water shocks my mind out of its stupor and soaks up the sweat accumulated on my forehead. I risk a glance back at my mirror image and it tells me that I look like a wet dog. _Same to you._

The harsh, hotel room lights cast dark shadows and make my face look hollowed and wrong. A red mark stands out against the pale skin of my cheek and I recognize the imprint of my watch. I had forgotten to take it off.

House yells in a too loud voice to not bother with prettying up just for him. I roll my eyes to my mirror image and it rolls its eyes right back at me.

I run my fingers through my hair and decide that enough is enough.

When I had heard the loud thumping noise through my muffled sleep, it had taken me awhile to realize that it wasn't just a couple upstairs having a good time, and actually it was somebody at my door requiring my attention. I had rubbed the sleep from my eyes and, as soon as I saw House's smirking face, dashed to the bathroom and have been hiding since.

It is incredibly hard to hide in a hotel room. Not many places to go.

Normally I am not one to find refuge in a bathroom when a friend comes over, even if we are fighting, but at the time I was remembering the parts of the dream that I have now seemed to forget. And I did not believe I was in the best state to talk to him.

But now that I have completely repressed that dream successfully, I have decided that I am fully capable to deal with the wrath or just plain mischievous of House.

I think.

As I open the door to find House giving me his characteristic scheming look, I reevaluate this.

I notice that he is fully dressed, which makes me feel very casual in my oh-so-fashionable blue plaid pajama pants and McGill sweatshirt. I try to look confident as I glare, crossing my arms and asking, "Why are you here?"

He shrugs. "Thought my best buddy would be happy to see me."

Ah, sarcasm, evasiveness, and fake niceness all in the same sentence.

"Do I even want to ask why you chose three AM to drop by? You know what – don't bother answering that. Why even ask – it's you. You can't do anything the normal way."

Somehow he has trapped me in the corner between the bathroom and the door and I push past him to get more room. He follows me. "Hey, I _tried _it the normal way. I was going to hash this out during my clinic duty hours so I could kill two birds with one stone, but you're the one who has been _exhibiting antisocial behaviors._"

My mind shoots back to that night and my lecture and that kiss and I really don't want to be thinking of this…

He continues on though, ever the sadist. "And, as a _wonderful _friend once told me: a friend needs to check up on a friend who has been avoiding him."

As his eyes bore into me without mercy, my thoughts go a mile a minute trying to figure him out, trying to get the upper hand. Why would he tell me to ignore what had happened and then turn around and grill me about it? Just to give me false hope? False security?

Just to screw with me?

Shadows leap here and there, tormenting us. It's too dark for comfort and House is eerily ghostlike. His blue eyes illuminate the room.

I practically sprint to the lamps, turning them all on. I breathe a sigh of relief as the shadows scatter and House turns back to human form and figure.

House raises an eyebrow at me and awaits my response patiently. I groan and collapse on my bed, resting my head in my hands, grabbing fistfuls of my hair. I give him a sideways glare and say, "I have a reason to be avoiding you. Before… I didn't know why you were acting the way you were. Not that anyone _ever _does because you have the strange ambition to be incredibly difficult and confusing. And I was concerned and I…." My voice becomes strained and weak, confidence draining out of me with every word. "I didn't expect for… _that _to happen. Just, God, give me a break here. It's not every day a guy gets kissed by his best friend."

From the expression on House's face I can tell that he thought it would take a lot more time for me even to _admit _what had happened. But it's late (or extremely early), and sleep was weighing down on me, telling me to hurry it up so I could return to dreamland.

He takes a moment to ponder this, which gives me a lot of time to read his expression. Which is unfortunately _un_readable at the moment. He leans against the wall and avoids my eyes while still having the upper hand. He twirls his cane around his nimble fingers and I follow it with my eyes, getting dizzy as it starts to go round faster and faster until it turns into a meaningless blur.

And then it drops.

Yes, it does clatter as it hits the floor.

He seems calmingly contemplative. And I am an anxious mess.

"You make it seem like I started this. I should be the one avoiding you, really. You're the one who came onto _me,_" he comments unexpectedly.

I am utterly baffled. "What are you _talking _about, House. You kissed me! YOU kissed ME!"

A pressure starts to grind its way through my head and behind my eyes, mocking me and making my torment that much worse. He just stares at me blankly as I rub furiously at my eyes and forehead. Through the roar in my ears I hear him say, "And you kissed me back."

My legs no longer take orders from my brain and they jump up without me. My arms flail and my voice gets a few octaves higher than it should naturally be. Incredulity is my major emotion, and plain confusion seems to rule me. My fuzzy, sleep deprived mind can't comprehend this bizarre conversation. I finally calm down enough to speak coherently. I let my eyes lock with his. "You started it… it had nothing to do with me."

He shakes his head. "You came to my apartment. _You _took the initiative."

"No."

His eyes are swallowed by flames. "You said you didn't want me to push you away. Who's doing the pushing now?"

I take a step forward in a half-hearted attempt to be intimidating. "What do you expect, House? This can't work."

He breaks our twisted hard-core staring contest for a moment. And then he looks back. And there is something in his eyes that I definitely do not like.

Before I know it he has me pushed up against the wall, lips pressed violently against mine, tongue doing some very interesting things. I make a small attempt to push him away but he easily holds my arms down, and I really don't mind at all. His body is warm and nice and his grip strong. And this kiss is…. It's mind-blowing. He kisses the way I would expect him to. He's dominant and aggressive, but there is this inexplicable softness underneath it all. And the whole thing makes my brain fuzzier than it already was and my brain can no longer even _pretend _to be in control.

And as soon as he is there, practically melding into me, he is gone and the air is cooling my fevered body. I can do nothing but stare.

And stare.

He is flushed beautifully and his mouth hangs open slightly. He breathes heavily.

My hands form fists and I clench my whole body in an attempt to regain control. I finally get out, "What was that? _Me _making another move on poor defenseless you, because the grip marks on my arms would beg to differ."

The bed squeaks as he sits down heavily. He tries to sound in control, but like me he is failing miserably. "That was an experiment. An experiment that wholeheartedly proves my hypothesis."

My knees at some point gave up and I find myself sitting on the floor, my back up against the wall and my head tilted back, staring at the ceiling. I ask absentmindedly, "And what would that hypothesis be?"

"That you dig me."

I pause and take this in. "Oh."

At some point he leaves. I don't know exactly when, as I was finding the ceiling particularly interesting and my gaze never left it. All I know is that at around five AM, as my alarm clock begins to scream enthusiastically, I look over at where House had been and wonder if it had all been a dream.

--

A/N: Please review.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: House MD is property of David Shore and the like.

--

A tall, gangly woman sits in front of me. Her arms stick out awkwardly of a flowered dress. She says to me in a grating, high-pitched voice, "So yous guys at this big, fancy hospital are telling me that I only have three months to live. Is that what you're telling me?"

I sigh and give her a sympathetic gaze, empathy flowing out of me in waves that I know the patient appreciates. At this point in my life it is mostly an act, but death is death, and there's not much I can do about that but hold this woman's hand and tell her I'm sorry. That I'll do everything I can for her.

The thing is: dying people can still be annoying. Incredibly annoying.

Unhampered squeaks slip out of blood red, lipsticked lips and my ears scream in pain. The squeaks bounce off the walls and seem to fill up the room.

It's better than the overwhelming silence. It's better than sitting across from a dying patient who has lost their voice entirely from shock. Where only my light tones fill the room as I futilely attempt to make everything seem alright.

It is a form of lying that is an art. It demands finesse.

This particular patient is different though. About the silence, I mean.

She grabs my arm and shrieks in my face, eyes narrowed, "Why would you lie 'bout this, Dr. Wilson? I know that I _can not _be dying! You see this body? This body is healthy and capable and has attracted many a lovely boy. This body is not ready to die. So, Dr. Wilson, this is the deal - you find a different _disease _for me to have, alright? Preferably a nonfatal one."

I blink my eyes and grit my teeth against her long, sharp nails digging into my forearm. "I'm sorry, Mrs… (holy shit, how did I forget her name?) um, well, sorry. It just doesn't work that way. Now this is what I think we should do…"

Yadayadayada… chemo… blahblahblah… farely advanced… dippitydoodaday.

Death is a major part of my life, I think.

It has become boring.

My speech is robotic yet still warmly caring, and my faraway mind barely registers when a scruffy, insidious man enters my office without knocking. I shift my eyes towards him for only a second, not recognizing him until my patient (Mrs something or something… her first name started with a J, I think) has fully accepted the fact that her body has started revolting against her and that only destruction is in order. That our army of meds may not be able to take out the insurgents.

I put it in nicer, more medically relevant terms, of course.

House limps over to my side of the desk, leaning against the wall next to me. What's-her-name (damn, this is bothering me – I spend too much time around House and his 'philosophy' of dealing with patients) stares at him with wide eyes, sizing him up for some reason. She's probably feeling the need to protect herself from everything, to overcompensate for the helplessness the cancer has brought.

She –Julia Simmons – is becoming more real to me the more I stare into those wide, cerulean eyes. Filled with fear. So much fear.

And regret.

I'm all for bonding with patients – as long as the bonding only skims the very surface of any real feeling I have. I don't like when I feel.

She purses her lips, the fear being shadowed by irritation. "And who is this? Dr. _Wilson, _why is this man in here? Is he another cancer doctor, because I don't like the looks of him, no I do not."

I hold up a hand (futile attempt at preventing the incessant chatter) and say calmly, "This is a colleague, Dr. House. He will not be working on your case, don't worry. He's only… observing."

She stands and puts her hands on her bony hips, "What exactly is he observing? 'Cause right now he only seems to be _observing _you."

My eyes grow wide and I can feel my face warm. Out of the side of my eye I can see House's smirk. I remind myself to never let him near one of my patients ever again.

The woman gives us this stare for a while longer, and I can see unnecessary anger in it. She goes through the stages quickly, I think. Denial came and went in only a few minutes. Anger, on the other hand, is obstinately sticking around.

She concedes. "Well, fine, then, _Doctors. _If we're done here then I have things to do. I am _dying, _you know. I don't want to waste the precious time I have left on you two."

Her dress swishes and flows against her skinny body. Standing tall in front of me with fiery eyes and wild hair, hands on her hips and back straight, she seems so powerful. She seems like she could beat cancer down with those two small fists, with pure effort.

She'll be fine, I think.

The door slams behind her as she leaves, and the office is conspicuously silent. House will probably break it soon enough.

I'm right.

He raises an eyebrow. "Well, she was fun. Which fatal illness does she have?"

I stare at the door a little longer, wondering if she was a dream. I don't know why I even feel a connection with this completely random patient. Sometimes it is the strangest people who end up making the biggest impressions.

Like House.

Speaking of…

"Need a consult? Or do you just like barging in at the most inopportune times?"

It's funny – at some point in our friendship I actually meant things like that. I actually _got _annoyed at him when he barged in without knocking, etc. Now I just yell at him because…

Well, just because. For the fun of it. Because I know he needs someone to yell at him every once in awhile, because _every once in awhile _he actually listens. Usually not.

I find it strange that we are both side by side, him standing behind and to the right of me a little, while I'm still sitting in my desk chair, leaning back slightly. While we talk we face forward, gazing at the unoccupied chair in front of us. He says to the chair, "The latter. It's funny when your face gets that irritated look – it gets all scrunchy and red. Like a toddler who got his cookie taken away."

I glance at him. "Oh, yes, House – _I'm _the toddler. See how far that idea will get you, and you will find _your _cookies taken away."

He tilts his head. "Does that even make sense?"

No.

I roll my eyes at him and grab a few random papers and a pen to make myself look busy. He snatches the pen out of my hand and grins, "See? _That _look you have on your face right now. It's hilarious. I should make a show all about the annoyed faces of Wilson. The ratings would be through the roof."

I imagine a show called _House _and then deduct that no one would ever believe it.

He moves from his leaned back position to a leaned over one. Over my shoulder to be exact. A bit too close for my taste, as his breath hits my ear and I can practically feel his stubble against my cheek. He glances over the papers on my desk. "So this is the urgent paperwork you're always complaining about? I wish I had so cushy a job."

He seems to be sucking up all the air in the room. He has that affect on people.

I find that when I turn to look at him our mouths are way too close, so I return my gaze to my busywork. A _People _magazine lies innocently on my desk, boldly claiming Christian Bale as the hottest man of the year and informing me on how to have the best sex of my life.

I try to remember why it's in here.

The pages crinkle as House grabs and carries it with him over to the couch. "I believe this is mine. How juvenile – stealing my things."

Ah.

House is like a puzzle himself, ironically. Or an irritatingly complicated game. Like how once you reach level 10 you get hit by a laser blaster out of nowhere and find yourself back at level 1, shooting bunnies in a clover field. He looks so deceivingly relaxed right now, reclining on my couch, ankles crossed, flipping through the pages carelessly while his eyes scan at a rapid pace.

But I also see the veil over his eyes, how his limp is a bit more pronounced, how everything he says has a certain lilt to it – like he's trying too hard.

He knows I'm analyzing him, just like I know when he's analyzing me, and he flashes me a grin. "See something you like? Feel free to jump my bones - I remember how _enthusiastic _you were those other two nights."

His gaze is so… well, frightening, for one. Also, he seems to be undressing me with his eyes. This is a very strange look coming from one of my long time friends who has never expressed interest in me or even in my gender before the last couple weeks.

It has been years since House has caused me to blush, but recently I find my face constantly on fire. I sigh and rest my hands lightly on my desk, balancing my body perfectly. "Are… are you _trying _to mess with me. Is this fun for you? I mean… I know you get a sadistic satisfaction out of making people uncomfortable… but what is it about this particular issue that makes you hold on to it so damn tight you will probably cause me to have a mental breakdown!"

I gasp a little at the end of that, having forgotten to breathe for awhile.

He looks surprised. _I _get a sadistic satisfaction out of seeing him shocked.

God, that stupid grin comes back, though. I can never really get to him, can I? I can never win. Never get the upper hand.

He says, "And that response was only to a mild innuendo – think of what interesting outburst you would have if I pulled you down and kissed you right here in your conveniently concealed office?"

I remind myself to check with Chase and Cameron to see if House has been sexually assaulting them as well. Maybe Foreman too…

This is very strange behavior. Even for him.

"House, don't you have… hookers… or _something_… to relieve you of things. Why do you insist on stalking me?" I ask, exasperated.

He shrugs. "It's fun."

I'm sure.

He has this strange look in his eyes though, revealing that there is more to his torment than he says. I give him a questioning look and wait patiently for him to say what he came here to say.

The thing is: patience is limited.

"I know how you get your kicks by staring me down with those eyes – but if you have something to say, say it, so I can actually get back to doing something productive." I admonish, desperate to end yet another one of our twisted staring contests.

My eyes travel to my desk and his towards the ceiling. His voice is contemplative, light. He wants to avoid a conversation and get things out in the open all at once.

He wants to investigate me and how I feel without losing the upper hand, without being vulnerable.

But, why oh _why, _am I the one who has to be vulnerable? I want to be in control for once. The only times I ever seem to have control over our relationship is when I'm sneaking around behind his back, deceiving him in one way or another. And yes, somehow this seems to happen fairly often.

He gets control by being up front, by being confident and aggressive. He digs into people's psyches with no mercy, constantly hitting at the one thing that he knows you will react to.

It takes all my cunning to get something on him. For him he only has to say a few words and suddenly he is in control of all the world, of all of you and all of your emotions.

It is a constant power struggle between us – another thing to add to the list of twisted things in our friendship.

But, this is why this thing going on between House and me has become an anomaly. He would never open himself up to be rejected like this. It is rare enough for him to open up at all, show any weakness, and it's insane to believe he'd let himself be vulnerable to such a magnitude as this.

It's troubling.

And now he sits on my couch and stares at my ceiling, not saying a word. Silence is more telling then all the words he could come up with. It's probably easier to get a read on him when he doesn't say anything at all. When we actually converse we tend to go round in circles, speaking in metaphor and undertones, never meaning what we say. It takes a lot of practice to be able to really keep up in a conversation with House.

But, well, I'm _aching _for normality. For the headache-inducing conversations.

He is being obstinate in playing his own games.

I shuffle a few papers around, trying to look unaffected. I shoot him a quick glance. "If you don't say something then I am going to start torturing you with the thing I know you hate the most: small talk."

He doesn't react, still staring at the somehow-fascinating ceiling.

I shrug my shoulders and give him a look that reminds him he asked for it. "Oh, Greggers, isn't it a wonderful day outside? Just look at those clouds! Brilliant! Speaking of which, isn't it funny how stocks seem to fluctuate with the temperature?"

I pause and, as I knew, he finally looked at me. "Who the hell says that the stock market fluctuates with the temperature?"

I raise my eyebrows, trying not to grin now that I have his attention. "People, House. People."

I can see him studying my face and I almost wish those eyes would go back to intensely glaring at the ceiling. But now that I have his attention I should probably say something profound and important and all that stuff.

"Are you in love with me?" I ask, my gaze not leaving his.

Ok, shit. I wasn't expecting that to come out of my mouth.

He pauses, almost completely masking his shock at the question. His blue eyes never leave mine as he says simply, "No."

God has a very strange sense of humor, I know, and somehow chooses this moment for a bird to fly into the window.

Yes, a _bird _flies into the window.

This of course causes me to jump out of my seat, spilling the coffee that everyone always seems to have near them whenever they suddenly jump out of their seats. I watch dejectedly as hot liquid gets absorbed into the thick, expensive material of my two week-old pants fresh from the dry cleaners. I cringe at the feeling of wet cloth.

"Well, that seems like an overreaction." House says, not moving a muscle through the whole conversation, the kamikaze bird, and the coffee's attack on my outfit.

I futilely try to brush off the soaked-in stain. I eye House. "You don't happen to have a spare pair of pants do you?"

"No such luck, but I will be escorting you back to your hotel to find a new pair of pants, and so meanwhile I can mock you relentlessly for asking me that question." He responds matter of factly.

Of course he will. Because, in his mind, emotions are bad and any sort of emoting of emotions, is, of course, very bad. And what tops his list of Things That Are Bad is asking a weak, sappy question like 'Are you in love with me?,' especially to House, by House, about House, or near House.

Knowing all this, you would think that I would have refrained in asking the question in the first place. But, of course not. My damn brain and mouth are still feuding. I predict many more foot-in-mouth experiences.

I should run far, far away from House then.

But, of course I don't. Of _course, _I walk right next to him, our feet falling in-sync, all the way to my car. And I drive with him back to my hotel room in silence, despite his promise to make me miserable. And I let him follow me up to my hotel room, even though I remember quite well what had happened there not too long ago at all.

--

A/N: Hm, more unfinished then a cliffhanger but this chapter has been stalking me for awhile and I had to placate it by updating. There is more to come… at somepoint. I am still annoyingly bad at updating, it seems. Will try to be better, though. Please review!


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